Tales of 221B
by AnorexicWalrus
Summary: A collection of BBC Sherlock Holmes and John Watson drabbles, varying in length and amount of fluffy cheesiness.
1. Chapter 1

It was with great hesitation and confusion and absolute newness that Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson entered a relationship with each other. It was difficult for both of them, what with John being baffled by his recently found bisexuality, which was triggered by Sherlock, whom was baffled by relationships as a whole. Sherlock didn't truly understand them – cuddling and whispering sweet nothings seemed like a huge waste of his time, and remembering anniversaries was definitely a huge waste of his valuable memory drive – but he did understand that what he felt for John was unlike what he felt for anyone else. And so, with his possessiveness over John and adoration for the smaller man in mind, he offered that they become partners in much more than a work-based ethic. John was startled at first, but he obliged happily all the same.

They didn't have a wedding. Sherlock said that a wedding would be too dull, and John just agreed whilst thinking of the cost of such a thing (never on _his _pay check) rather than how amusing it would be. However, they did sign the civil partnership register and buy brass rings for one another so as to signify their love which was as on-going as a circle, and for something to waggle at other people so as to say _"Sorry, I'm taken"_.Sherlock also endured John's suggestion of inviting a few people around to celebrate with them, although Sherlock spent most of the evening insulting people and screeching with the violin in his room, which John would drag him from, telling him that his actions were "a bit not good" and that he should "be nice". Sherlock couldn't help but obey those endearing blue eyes boring into him.

Most days their relationship went unnoticed and unacknowledged apart from when John would notice his ring out of the corner of his eye, and he would look up at Sherlock and say, "I'd forgotten; I'm much more than a friend now, aren't I?" and he would chortle as Sherlock would reply with "Yes, but please refrain from telling my job. I'm married to it, you see, and I'm sure it wouldn't appreciate this affair."

Another time when their relationship would be remembered was when Sherlock woke up to a face full of dusty blonde hair and the feeling of warm, slow breath against his neck. There he would stay and watch John asleep for a while until John followed suit in consciousness, and Sherlock would become bored of the idle, mindless chit-chat which ensued first thing in the morning, jumping up and out of bed and leaving for the living room where he would sit hunched on the sofa or look out of the window, deep in thought, or tap away at the laptop or phone so as to annoy someone of some sort with his massive intellect and amazing ability to insult.

John was fine with it though. He knew Sherlock was like a distracted child, searching endlessly for a thrill, like that of opening your first neatly wrapped present under the glowing lights of the Christmas tree. Besides, there was a bright side to it: with Sherlock gone, John could hog more of the bed and snooze for a few more minutes.

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><p><strong>Author's notes: Hey, guys! Tis my first time writing a BBC Sherlock fic, so go easy on me, please; even if it's dreadful. However, I actually like how this turned out - especially the part describing Sherlock as a child searching for a thrill, because...well, let's face it: he kind of is exactly that. XD But we love him for it.<br>Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**AnorexicWalrus~**


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, will you stop it?" John pleaded, entering the living room in his usual state; wearing a knitted oatmeal jumper, a weary expression, and a head of messy bed hair.

Sherlock looked up, the innocence and confusion of a child plaguing his mature and usually blank face, "Stop what?"

"You know," sighed John, "wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama pants to show off your torso and make yourself look sexy. It's like that thing you do where you pull up your coat collar to look cool."

"I don't do that!" Sherlock retorted childishly. John did not reply, but he raised his eyebrow at him over the top of the newspaper he was settling down with. Sherlock just huffed and continued to type away at what was notably John's laptop.

He sighed and rustled his newspaper, getting ready for a presumably quiet day unless Sherlock jumped up and realised something and dashed out, insisting that John tagged along. Either that or some mysterious person in a suit would turn up, and the rest is unpredictable. Still, there was always the possibility of a bomb exploding at 221B Baker Street as well. Or so that's what usually happened. John chuckled to himself as the thought struck him that the odd and excitable had become the norm ever since he had met Sherlock.

"Something funny?" the detective asked, cocking his head in bafflement.

John caught himself and cleared his throat, rustling his newspaper again for a distraction, "No, nothing." Sherlock hummed in response and went back to typing. Their morning was quiet; the silence only broken by the turning of pages and the repetitive clattering of a keyboard.

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><p><strong>Author's notes: Just another quick drabble for you lovely people. I must say, I was quite stunned by the mass of positive feedback I received for my first drabble. You've made me very happy, thank you!<br>Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**AnorexicWalrus~**


	3. Chapter 3

John watched, his head resting in his hand, as Sherlock lay across the couch, his hands in their "praying mantis" position, as John had fondly labelled it, and his clear blue eyes searching the abyss of his mind as he murmured snippets of sentences and facts to himself. It seemed Sherlock was having trouble thinking about this new case, and John had rejected Sherlock's silly ideas of alleviating the thought barrier that had erected itself in his mind, unwilling to budge.

"John, get me my revolver."

"No, Sherlock." John exhaled, "The rent is already pretty high this month; we don't need you shooting holes in the wall and increasing that height."

"John, where are the cigarettes?"

"I threw them out, Sherlock." John rubbed at the purple bags under his weary hazel eyes. He hadn't slept in a while due to Sherlock's diligence to this case.

"John, where are the drugs?"

"For Christ's sake, I threw those out too, Sherlock!" John groaned, rolling his eyes, "Have you ever thought about calming down with a cup of tea and some biscuits? And what about those nicotine patches?"

"John, get me my sword."

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson took it! You kept slicing up the furniture. And, before you ask, Mrs. Hudson took your knife too."

Sherlock paused for a moment, his eyes still roving his palace of thought. It looked as though he were gazing at the grubby ceiling of their flat; however, that was not the case. Sherlock was staring into the ceiling of his palace which was constructed not with gold or polished marble but with relevant data and foreign languages and maps, ignoring the windows made of the absence of the solar system and who on earth the Prime Minister was.

"John, pass me your laptop."

"Can't you go and fetch yours?" John groaned, "And if you're too lazy to do that then could you at least stretch over and grab it from the coffee table which is right next to you."

"Pass me your laptop."

John sighed in defeat and grudgingly got up, making sure to drop the heavy piece of equipment onto Sherlock's stomach rather than pass it to him. Sherlock startled for a moment, glancing at the doctor in confusion, before shrugging and beginning his fast typing. John decided to escape to the kitchen for some biscuits (the biscuits were just an excuse; he was actually trying to escape the insufferable Sherlock for at least five minutes). Alas, John had barely been in their laboratory of a kitchen for _one minute _before he heard Sherlock crying out, "John, get in here!"

John could do nought but comply with the detective's wishes, obeying his every command like a loyal dog. He blamed the military, for he had been trained to take orders without questioning them. But, really, was there ever any point in questioning Sherlock's actions? If he was to be asked why he kept eyeballs in the microwave or why he thought anyone else was keeping up with a particular case, "that face" would plague him in the form of furrowed brows and pursed lips, as if Einstein had asked him what two plus two was, or something equally as mad and ridiculous.

John entered the room, frowning, "What do you want?" _He probably wants to send a text or treat me like his skull and use me as a one-sided conversational partner, or he'll get his coat and scarf on and lead me God knows where for God knows what…_

"I want to kiss you, John."

John paused for a moment, trying to refrain from sticking his fingers in his ears and rummaging around for a blockade, because _could he have honestly heard that right_? "I'm sorry, you want to what?"

Sherlock groaned in vexation, slamming the laptop down (John winced at this. That is a piece of expensive and delicate equipment after all) and jumping down from his stooped posture on the sofa to stand tall on the rough carpet of their flat, quickly floating over to John with his gown flowing behind him. "I want to kiss you, John Watson. Or, let me rephrase that, I _need _to kiss you."

John's face flushed a little, and his military man guard dropped as nervousness and curiosity took over, "Never before has anyone _needed _to kiss. It's a matter of _want_."

"Yes, and I'm the world's first and only consulting detective, and so, I can just as easily be the world's first and only person who _needs _to kiss." Sherlock smirked as he watched John's mouth gape in disbelief.

"Okay, you must have gotten 'want' and 'need' mixed up here, Sher. I can't see any reason for you to _need _to kiss me."

"Yes, I didn't think so at first either," Sherlock breathed, floating away from John again to gaze out of the window, his sights on the light bustle of Baker Street, "That is until I looked up a good way to relieve stress on the internet. Surprisingly, kissing is a good stress reliever. And not only that, but as I read on I found out that kissing can be good for the heart as it creates an adrenaline which causes your heart to pump more blood around your body. Frequent kissing has been scientifically proven to stabilise cardiovascular activity as well as decreasing blood pressure and cholesterol. It also appears that kissing reduces anxiety and stops the 'noise' in your mind. It increases the level of oxytocin too…"

Sherlock returned from the window to the side of flabbergasted John, "And that, dearest John, is why I _need _to kiss you. My thoughts are going haywire, so I need to calm them, and that oxytocin is sounding rather convenient."

John gulped. Yes, he was committed to Sherlock (they had officially been going out for a while, around a month), and yes, John did love Sherlock, but…but he just didn't want this. Maybe it was because he was still getting over the scary thought of his overbearing father's disapproval in him partaking in a homosexual relationship, perhaps it was because he simply wasn't in the mood for such a thing, or it could just be that John was disappointed. He'd prefer it if Sherlock _wanted _to kiss him rather than_ needing _to kiss him. He felt more like he was being used than loved.

"Well, those are some interesting and laudable theories, but you don't have any proof as to whether they're genuine." John heard himself squeak. Sherlock grinned devilishly.

"I know. That is why you and I are going to test such theories out."

John didn't have time to squeak or garble out another reply as Sherlock planted his cupid's-bow lips upon John's slightly chapped ones, crushing them together roughly as if they were about to be torn apart, which is probably what Sherlock feared for if the military doctor tried to wrench them apart after getting over the shock.

John became rigid for a moment, his mind not really computing what was happening. He just stood there, whimpering, as Sherlock kissed him mercilessly. However, he came around as soon as he felt Sherlock tugging on his lower lip with his pearly white teeth, and tried his hardest to get out of that predicament, whining and trying to push away from the detective. His efforts were useless though as Sherlock had artfully trapped the man against the wall in a swift movement, pressing his leg in between John's and holding the smaller man's arms against him in a strong embrace. John's fighting spirit was strong too, but there was only so much he could take, what with the shock and the fact that the man standing before him was Sherlock, and he wouldn't want to reject or harm him in any way.

In the end, after a less-than-triumphant struggle, John gave in and allowed himself to be pressed against the wall and kissed, closing his eyes because it would be weird to stare at Sherlock's maddeningly close face as they canoodled. After a while, John felt himself relaxing into it, strangely enough – his hands grabbing at the taller man's clothes and hair and face, trying to find an appropriate place to rest, and his shoulders sagging from their tensed posture as he, strangely enough again, moaned into the kiss. It turned out that Sherlock was quite good at this kissing malarkey, which made John wonder, was this not his first time, or was he just such a fast and good learner when it came to everything?

They finally pulled away, John panting for breath with his cheeks slightly tinged red, and Sherlock just staring at John. Well, more like through John, delving into his mind palace once again he presumed. But then Sherlock cocked his head, his expression changing to shock and confusion, as if baffled by the fact that he was pinning the breathless doctor against the wall. And then he let go, backing off slightly and raising his hand to his mouth, biting at the flesh of his index digit like a child nibbling at its fingers after being found rooting through the cookie jar in the middle of the night.

"Well, that seemed to backfire." Sherlock remarked, turning to parade around the coffee table, sometimes stepping over it accidentally, "This didn't have the reaction I hoped; it seems I gained the other one. Perhaps it was too much, or not enough? However, trying again this instant could alter the data extracted…"

"Sherlock, what are you going on about?" John asked, touching his assaulted, bruised lips.

"The result, John!" Sherlock groaned, throwing his hands up in the air as he exclaimed as if annoyed that he had to explain _anything _to John, "I did not gain the intended result, thus that experiment failed, and it has currently left me in quite a predicament."

John folded his arms over his chest, "And what would this predicament be?"

"Arousal!" Sherlock yelled, seeming frustrated more with himself than John now, "The intentions of the kiss were to clear my mind, and I thought that such a powerful kiss would really increase the effect of oxytocin and alleviate stress. Alas, it seems that I have done nothing but boost the noise in my mind, and with desires this time. I may be a high-functioning sociopath, but I cannot stop myself having the urges of a human, and the kiss did nothing for me but arouse me."

John felt his heart accelerate, his blush spreading ferociously, "So I…I helped to…make you…"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, already aware of what John was trying to ask.

"Oh." And that's all John could say was _"Oh"_, because never before had he been in such a situation where he had aroused someone, or at least it had seemed that way. The women he had used to get off with never seemed as perplexed about such a thing as Sherlock was now. Still, that might just be because Sherlock wasn't used to feeling like a human in such a way. John couldn't help but smile at this; smile at the fact that he had brought a little humanity out of Sherlock's robotic form. "I'm sorry for not giving you the result you wanted."

"Hmm?" Sherlock broke out of his thoughts for a moment, but then swatted John's unnecessary apology out of the way with a few flicks of his hand, "Oh! No, that's quite alright, John. You weren't the domineering one in that situation, so it's hardly your fault. No, I just did it wrong or something. But how? I'm starting to think it was too rough…"

"No!" John found himself shouting, and his cheeks were well and truly red as Sherlock stared in surprise at his outburst. He cleared his throat, "I'm sorry about that, it's just…" he scratched the back of his head, for lack of anything better to do whilst just standing there with Sherlock's full attention and roving eyes on him, "it's just that I don't want you to put yourself down for that, because although you didn't get the expected result, that kiss was…amazing." John nodded in agreement with himself.

Sherlock pursed his lips – his lips which had not long ago been making contact with John's – for a moment before replying, "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was," John smiled, getting a sense of déjà vu, "it was extraordinary…quite extraordinary." Sherlock smiled back at him, sharing the sense of déjà vu, laughing giddily with John.

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><p><strong>Author's notes: And then I leave the rest to your imaginations, good readers. Whether they discussed the weather as they consumed tea and biscuits or went to the bedroom to proceed with some hanky-panky is up to your own mind palaces.<br>Sorry that this is quite late. I've been bogged down with college work, so I've been too weary to upload this installment. But I've finally gotten round to it! Yay~ And so, please don't hurt me. XD Oh, and I apologise if it isn't satisfactory. I'm not too good at describing kissing or anything like that. ._.  
>Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated.<br>Thank you and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**AnorexicWalrus~**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had a sweet tooth, which was evident when he asked for two sugars in his black coffee, but hidden the rest of the time. And so, it was no wonder that Sherlock secretly saw John Watson as sweet. Thinking back on it, it was probably one of the aspects that drew him to the doctor, what with his sweet tooth seeking out something sweet. It all made perfect sense in his mind, and yet no sense.

Finding certain foods sweet was normal for Sherlock – even though he barely ate anything – but it was abnormal for him to find something sweet in a human being. And yet, here he was with sweet John Hamish Watson, always smiling and laughing jovially with him as if he were a child who had consumed too much sugar, like he never had with anyone before. The stranger thing was that John was acting the same, as if he found Sherlock equally as sweet, which was a far cry from the truth, which was that he was an annoying, insufferable prat.

However, if John was happy getting giddy off of the non-existent sweetness, then so be it. Who was Sherlock to argue with the doctor who reminded him of a warm, sweet black coffee with two sugars?

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><p><strong>Author's notes: A very short one, but sweet all the same - like that small, sweet solitary biscuit left in the biscuit tin for you to savour and relish in the fact that you got the last one.<br>Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated!  
>Thank you and enjoy~<strong>

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**AnorexicWalrus~**


	5. Chapter 5

Some people would roll their eyes and click their tongues at a middle-aged man settling down to watch a Disney film, and so, imagine the reaction to _two _middle-aged men settling down to watch a Disney film. Well, after much insistence from John and much failing to retaliate against those big blue eyes on Sherlock's part, that is exactly what those two men were doing. John had rented that new Disney film, _Tangled_, from Blockbuster because he had never seen it before, and he had _always _seen _every _Disney film, ever since he was a little boy. Sherlock had been Disney deprived though, and John was starting to see why. What he couldn't see was why Sherlock was a consulting detective when he would fit right in with the film critics.

"This movie is ridiculous, John." Sherlock drawled, "It's not making sense, especially time-wise. They started dancing at the beginning of their visit to town, and their dancing session should have continued uninterrupted judging by the song, and right at the end it was time to venture to the boats. However, they seemed to manage trips to the library and shops around town as well. Preposterous!"

"Sherlock, please." John sighed.

"Not only that," the detective continued, "but when they finished dancing it was still bright and sunny. But only moments after that, when they got on the boat, it was dark. How is that? What, did they crawl to the boats like a snail? That's the only explanation!"

"It's a Disney movie, Sherlock. It's not make to make sense; it's supposed to bring you joy, and hope, and-"

"Hope?" Sherlock scoffed, "If anything, this makes me _lose_ hope. In humanity."

John sighed again, defeated, because he'd never win against the man who would outlive God trying to have the last word, and resigned himself to stroking Sherlock's head of dark curls rested on John's shoulder. He didn't mind the weight though, for it was warm and smelt familiar. Weird as it was that the smell of scalded eyeballs mixed with black coffee could be classed as familiar, that was just another aspect that made Sherlock who he was. Nevertheless, he seriously wished Sherlock would just shut up for once.

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><p><strong>Author's notes: I was originally going to write more for this. However, when I recently opened it again and read over this document, I realised it was fine as it was, really, so decided to upload it as is.<br>Seriously though, I agree with Sherlock. What happened with that scene in _Tangled_? Messed up, I tell ye!  
>Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated!<br>Thank you and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

**AnorexicWalrus~**


	6. Chapter 6

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

John has never needed it so much in his life, after two endless days and one long night of running around and thinking and then running some more with a pinch of thinking on the side; not to mention suffering rejection in the form of Sherlock's scoffing as he told John that his thoughts which he was trying to contribute to the case were rubbish, because if he had looked more carefully at the man's left toe…

And then John stopped listening, because he was too sleepy for a long spiel. He just yawned and nodded every now and again so as to pretend he was listening. And then, as Sherlock stopped talking and seemed to delve into his mind palace, John hoped that maybe – just maybe, if he was lucky – then Sherlock would be spending a lot of time in his mind palace. And so, perhaps, during that time, John could attempt to doze off, just for a bit.

_Just for a bit_, he concurred with his self as he rested on the table, his head in his arms, and the room blacked out as he eyelids fell.

Sherlock smiled as he snapped out of his mind palace. A revelation – noun; 1) the act of revealing or disclosing; disclosure; 2) something revealed or disclosed, especially a striking disclosure, as of something not before realized – had just been had. He had to leave immediately, and if his memory was right, a piece of evidence he had missed or discarded as unimportant should still be at the scene of the crime, if it was even a crime, which Sherlock was beginning to doubt.

He jumped up from his seat, shrugged his coat on, and called for his partner as he wrapped his scarf around his neck, "Come on, John!" He almost pelted down the stairs, and expected the same paced footsteps to be following him, but was shocked to hear no such thing. He cocked his head and furrowed his brow, staring up the stairs, hoping for the doctor to appear very soon. Alas, that did not happen, and with a sigh he was forced to hurry back up the stairs, with Mrs. Hudson complaining that it sounded like an elephant stomping around.

He frowned at the sight of John asleep at the kitchen table, and he strode over to the smaller man and shook his shoulders, "Wake up, John, we have a case to solve."

John mumbled incoherently, but his eyes slowly opened and he squinted around him with bleary vision, "Wazzat?"

"A case, John, come on!" Sherlock clapped his hands to further wake the doctor, "I need to get to a piece of evidence before Anderson gets his hands on it."

John nodded and yawned, stumbling up and following the swish of the consulting detective's coat as he blazed through the doorway and down the stairs, this time followed by footsteps – slow and clumsy, but there all the same. When outside, Sherlock managed to quickly hail a cab, and he and John bundled into it and were driven away.

"Anyway, John," Sherlock began his duty of filling John in, "before I told you to look carefully at his left toe. However, what we should have focused on was his left finger – the ring finger, to be exact, for on that was an old wedding ring – scratched, but still shined regularly by him twisting it about his finger whilst thinking of his late marriage, but by the state of him and his flat it would seem that he hasn't been with his marital partner for quite some time. All the police thought that perhaps his ex-wife hated him for the man he was, particularly his drunken behaviour, and shot him. However, this man hadn't been a drunk for quite a while, despite the countless bottles of alcoholic beverages in his flat, because those were days old and had been lying in his bin for ages. You can tell from the stain in his carpet, which, like the bottles, is days old, but, surely, if he was a constant drunkard then you'd expect more sloshing of beverages – more stains; more recent stains – but no, because, as I just said, he hasn't been drinking in a while. The reason for this is also the reason for all the bottles in his bin that have just been sitting there. Wouldn't you usually take them to the bottle bank? Of course you would, unless you weren't feeling up to it, and he certainly wasn't, for he had been thinking lately about his wife and-"

Sherlock paused as he felt a weight on his shoulder, and he looked down and blinked at John, with his head on Sherlock's shoulder. His breathing was steady and light – the slow breathing of someone unconscious – and it seemed that where sleep was involved, John had reached his limit.

Sherlock smiled, for he had forgotten that, despite how inhumanly strong his character was, John was still a normal human with certain requirements. With that in mind, and the fact that it was going to be a long car journey anyway, Sherlock planted a chaste kiss on the doctor's forehead and ran a calloused hand through John's dusty blonde hair, telling John to rest well before silencing himself throughout the rest of the ride.

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><p><strong>Author's notes: My friend, pie1313, came up with this idea, and it was so simple yet sweet that I felt compelled to write it, so here you are. I'm not the best at thinking up cases, but I tried my best. By the way, if you're wondering, the man shot himself because he missed his wife. Corny and kind of been-there-done-that, but do I look like the genuis Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? No. Didn't think so.<br>Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated!  
>Thank you and enjoy!<strong>

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

**AnorexicWalrus~**


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